"You'd better start at the beginning. You went into Gestapo headquarters?" Paul asked, moving closer as if he didn't want to risk missing even one word. "Was that the first time or the second?"

"Both. The first time, in April 1943, I rescued him. I pretended I was pregnant and brought a priest to the house the Gestapo had taken over. I insisted with great bravado that they force Jean-Claude to marry me and give my baby a name. I didn't care if they killed him, I said, but before he died I wanted him to give my baby his name." She paused. "I was very convincing."

"You weren't pregnant, were you?"

"No, of course not," her grandmother snapped. "It was a ploy to get into the house."

"Was the priest a real priest?"

"Yes. He didn't know I was using him, but I had no alternative. I was desperate to get Jean-Claude out alive."

"The priest knew nothing," Ruth repeated, meeting Paul's eyes, astounded by her grandmother's nerve and cunning.

"The Father knew nothing," the older woman concurred, smiling grimly. "But I needed him, and so I used him. Thankfully the Gestapo believed me, and because they wanted to keep relations with the Church as smooth as possible, they brought Jean-Claude into the room."

Ruth could picture the scene, but she didn't know if she'd ever possess that kind of bravery.

"Jean-Claude was in terrible pain, but he nearly laughed out loud when the priest asked him if he was the father of my child. Fortunately he didn't have to answer because our friends had arranged a distraction outside the house. A firebomb was tossed into a parked vehicle, which exploded. All but two Gestapo left the room. I shot them both right in front of the priest, and then Jean-Claude and I escaped through a back window."

"Where did you find the courage?" Ruth asked breathlessly.

"Courage?" her grandmother echoed. "That wasn't courage. That was fear. I would do anything to save my husband's life-and I did. Then, only a few weeks later, I was the one who killed him. What took courage was finding the will to live after Jean-Claude died. That was courage, and I would never have managed if it hadn't been for the American soldier who saved my life. If it hadn't been for Sam."

"He was my grandfather," Ruth explained to Paul.

"I want to know more about Jean-Claude," Paul said, placing his arm around Ruth's shoulders. It felt good to be held by him and she leaned into his strength, his solid warmth.

Her grandmother's eyes grew weary and she shook her head. "Perhaps another day. I'm tired now, too tired to speak anymore."

"We should go," Paul whispered.

"I'll do the dishes," Ruth insisted.

"Nonsense. You should leave now," Helen said. "You have better things to do than talk to an old lady."

"But we want to talk to you," Ruth told her.

"You will." Helen looked even more drawn. "Soon, but not right now."

"You'll finish the story?"

"Yes," the old woman said hoarsely. "I promise I'll tell you everything."

While her grandmother went to her room to rest, Ruth and Paul cleaned up the kitchen. At first they worked in silence, as if they didn't know quite what to say to each other. Ruth put the food away while Paul rinsed the dishes and set them inside the dishwasher.

"You didn't know any of this before today?" he asked, propping himself against the counter.

"Not a single detail."

"Your father never mentioned it?"

"Never." Ruth wondered again how much her father actually knew about his mother's war adventures. "I'm sure you were the one who prompted her."

"Me?" Paul asked with a frown. "How?"

"More than anything, I think you reminded her of Jean-Claude." Ruth tilted her head to one side. "It's as if this woman I've known all my life has suddenly become a stranger." Ruth finished by wiping down the counters. She knew they'd need to leave soon if they were going to catch the ferry.

"Maybe you'd better check on her before we go," Paul suggested.

She agreed and hurried out of the kitchen. Her grandmother's eyes opened briefly when Ruth entered the cool, silent room. Reaching for an afghan at the foot of the bed, Ruth covered her grandmother with it and kissed the papery skin of her cheek. She'd always loved Helen, but she had an entirely new respect for her now.

"I'll be back soon," Ruth whispered.

"Bring your young man."

"I will."

Helen's response was low, and at first Ruth didn't understand her and strained to hear. Gradually her voice drifted off. Ruth waited until Helen was asleep before she slipped out of the room.

"She's sleeping?" Paul asked, setting aside the magazine he was reading when Ruth returned to the kitchen.

Ruth nodded. "She started speaking to me in French. I so badly wish I knew what she said."

They left a few minutes later. Caught up in her own thoughts, Ruth walked down the hill beside Paul, neither of them speaking as they approached the foot ferry that would take them from Cedar Cove across to Bremerton.

Once they were aboard the ferry, Paul went to get them coffee from the concession stand. While he was gone, Ruth decided she had to find out how much her family knew about her grandmother's war exploits. She opened her purse and rummaged for her cell phone.

Paul brought the coffee and set her plastic cup on the table.

Ruth glanced up long enough to thank him with a smile. "I'm calling my parents."

Paul nodded, tentatively sipping hot coffee. Then, in an obvious effort to give her some privacy, he moved to stand by the rail, gazing out at the water.

Her father answered on the third ring. "Dad, it's Ruth," she said in a rush.

"Well, Ruthie, this is a pleasant surprise. I'll get your mother."

Her father had never enjoyed telephone conversations and generally handed the phone off to Ruth's mother.

"Wait-I need to talk to you," Ruth said.

"What's up?"

That was her dad, too. He didn't like chitchat and wanted to get to the point as quickly as possible.

"I went over to see Grandma this afternoon."

"How is she? We've been meaning to get up there and see her and you. I don't know where the time goes. Thanksgiving was our last visit."

How is she? Ruth wasn't sure what to say. Her grandmother seemed fragile and old, and Ruth had never thought of her as either. "I don't know, Dad. She's the same, except-well, except she might have lost a few pounds." Ruth looked over at Paul and bit her lip. "I...brought a friend along with me."

"Your roommate? What's her name again?"

"Lynn Blumenthal. No, this is a male friend."

That caught her father's attention. "Someone from school?"

"No, we met sort of...by accident. His name is Paul Gordon and he's a sergeant in the marines. We've been corresponding for the past four months. But Paul isn't the reason I'm phoning."

"All right, then. What is?"

Ruth dragged in a deep breath. "Like I said before, I was visiting Grandma."

"With this marine you're seeing," he reiterated.

"Yes." Ruth didn't dare look at Paul a second time. Nervously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Grandma was in France during World War II. Did you know that?"

Her father paused. "Yes, I did."

"Were you aware that she was a member of the French Resistance?"

Again he paused. "My father mentioned something shortly before he died, but I never got any more information."

"Didn't you ask your mother?"

"I tried, but she refused to talk about it. She said some things were better left buried and deflected all my questions. Do you mean to say she told you about this?"

"Yes, and, Dad, the stories were incredible! Did you know Grandma was married before she met Grandpa Sam?"

This statement was greeted by a shocked silence.

"Her husband's name was Jean-Claude," she added.

"A Frenchman?"

"Yes." She frowned as she tried to recall his surname from the poster. "He was part of the movement, too, and Grandma, your mother, went into a Gestapo headquarters and managed to get him out."

"My mother?" The question was obviously loud enough for Paul to hear from several feet away, because his eyebrows shot up as their eyes met.

"Yes, Dad, your mother. I was desperate to learn more, but she got tired all of a sudden, and neither Paul nor I wanted to overtax her. She's taking a nap now, and Paul and I are on the ferry back to Seattle."

Ruth thought she heard her father mutter something like "Holy Mother of God," then take a long, ragged breath.

"All these years and she's never said a word to me. Dad did, as I told you, but he didn't give me any details, and I never believed Mom's involvement amounted to much-it was more along the lines of moral support, I always figured. My dad was over there and we knew that's where he met Mom."

"Did they ever go back to France?" Ruth asked.

"No. They did some traveling, but mostly in North America-Florida, Mexico, Quebec..."

"I guess she really was keeping the past buried," Ruth said.

"She must realize she's getting near the end of her life," her father went on, apparently thinking out loud. "And she wants us to know. I'm grateful she was willing to share this with you. Still, it's pretty hard to take in. My mother...part of the French Resistance. She told me she was in school over there."

"She was." Ruth didn't want her father to think Helen had lied to him.

"Then how in heaven's name did she get involved in that?"

"It's a long story."

"What made her start talking about it now?" her father asked.

"I think it's because she knows she's getting old, as you suggested," Ruth said. "And because of Paul."

"Ah, yes, this young man you're with."

"Yeah."

Her father hesitated. "I know you can't discuss this now with Paul there, so give us a call later, will you? Your mother's going to want to hear about this young man."

"Yes, Daddy," she said, thinking with some amusement that she sounded like an obedient child.

"I'll give Mom a call later," her father said. "We need to set up a visit ourselves, possibly for the Memorial Day weekend."

After a quick farewell, she clicked off the phone and put it back inside her purse.

Paul, still sipping his coffee, approached her. She picked up her own cup as he sat down beside her.

"I haven't enjoyed an afternoon more in years," Paul said. "Not in years," he added emphatically.

Ruth grinned, then drank some of her cooling coffee. "I'd like to believe it was my company that was so engaging, but I know you're enthralled with my grandmother."

"And her granddaughter," Paul murmured, but he said it as if he felt wary of the fact that he found her appealing.

Ruth took his hand. "We haven't settled anything," he reminded her, tightening his hold on her fingers.

"Do we have to right this minute?"

He didn't answer.

"I want to see you again," she told him, moving closer.

"That's the problem. I want to see you again, too."

"I'm glad." Ruth didn't hide her relief.

Paul's responding smile was brief. "All right, we'll do this your way-one day at a time. But remember, I only have two weeks' leave."

She knew instinctively that these would be the shortest two weeks of her life.